


It's Their Fault

by DontAsaltSnails



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alone, And now u poor guys have to live with my pain, Angst, Angst with a dark ending, Blood and Gore, Crying, Death, Denial of Feelings, Gen, Gore, Gun Violence, Hurt Jim, I always do this when im all fucked up, Jim needs help, Loneliness, Major character death - Freeform, Memories, Mental Instability, Minor Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty, Minor Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty, No Romance, Only rated E because I gored a bit, POV Jim Moriarty, Poor Jim, Repressed Memories, Sad, Suicide, Tbh you probably dont want to read this, Triggers, brain matter, im a terrible person, so fucking sad, venting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 05:38:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9221393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DontAsaltSnails/pseuds/DontAsaltSnails
Summary: What's there left to do anymore when nobody's left to play with?(I'm sorry for this. Read the tags. Not pretty or cute or happy in any way.)





	

It was so miserable that day in his home. Moriarty sat staring ahead, mind running wild yet pulling blanks. He smiled sweetly at the box in front of him, it was old and worn, nothing like the furniture around him in his luxury flat. Jim sighed and sat back, things had gotten very boring as of late. His righthand man, Sebastian Moran, had died years ago. James wished he could feel sympathy for the man, for his friend, but he couldn’t. Colonel Sebastian Moran had signed his own personal death wish back when he had joined the war, back when he joined Moriarty. It was his own fault he died, always playing the hero, Jim chuckled darkly. That thought however didn’t stop the cold emptiness from spreading throughout the criminal’s chest. People _die_  that's what they do, even the most loyal. The most stupid… It had taken time to move on after Moran’s death, but James had been able to. Like with anything in his life, James disassociated, he detached himself from the most intimate moments with his former employee and destroyed them. Files and files of memory, burnt inside his mind, never to be seen again; or so he hoped. Like a spider pulled every string of it’s web, James Moriarty controlled every part of his being: his mind, his body, his emotions. Yet the coldness spread through him like ice melting into his very pores. He felt dead, _what else was new?_

Back to the box, sat on the dark oak table. Moriarty grinned at the box taking the lid off, it’s been so long since he felt his heart _flutter_. It’s still there, even after all these years, he let out a delighted sigh reaching into the tattered shoebox.

Things had changed since, Sherlock stopped playing. That’s when everything got so much worse for the consulting criminal. With no-one else to play with, what was he supposed to do? Stupid, stupid, Sherlock and his stupid stupid friends. They made him ordinary- No, he was always ordinary- always weak. The doofus. Jim laughed bitterly, if Sherlock Holmes didn’t want to play anymore so be it. This had also taken, James time to cope. He worked through it like anything else, burnt his bridges- well not all of them, not yet. He would destroy the final bridge soon. He was no longer the king, he stepped off his throne, tossing the title to any mutt hungry enough to win it. James smiled warmly as he stroked the contents of the box, a tear rolling down his cheek. He was alone, thanks to those morons. Who was there to play with him now? Everything was so boring- so so boring. James snorted, so boring just like Sherlock. They were so ordinary just like Sebastian. He grimaced at the memories of both men, oh, he ached. He ached for the sweetest relief, the relief he had always begged for even since decades previous. There was only one thing for James Moriarty to do. He wanted to descend, he wanted to die alone, as he always knew he would. James licked away the salty tears, because despite his changeable- detached method of living… He couldn’t detach from his boys. He couldn’t forget them, not really.

The apartment was silent. It was grey outside that day, clouds blocking the heaven above. The apartment was silent where the tired Moriarty sat. He was so tired, so bored, so so tired.

There was a click, and then shortly after a bang. Crimson spray painted the wall, speckled with bits of brain matter and skull.

At least he wasn’t bored _or lonely_ anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry, comments and kudos are welcome.


End file.
